Alone and Lonely
by pretentious-emo-kid
Summary: HR. Set during 405 The Book.


Though I don't usually ask stuff like this, _please _be gentle with me on this one, folks. It was hard to write for more reasons than one.

* * *

Alone and Lonely

"I like to know the sordid details of anyone I'm going to be working with intimately."

Ruth's eyes narrowed in a characteristic show of confusion. Harry had long accredited this somehow unique expression to her chaotic mind; he reasoned that with so many half-finished, obscure thoughts rushing around her head, she often found herself wondering whether she had merely reached the next level of eccentricity, and started projecting them onto other people.

Of course, in Harry's case, the bizarre words were usually all his own.

"Within professional boundaries, of course," he clarified for her.

"Of course," repeated Fiona. Neither Zaf or Adam would ever make any constructive attempts to interrupt 'Ruth and Harry's Moments' – they would rather sit and look awkward, waiting for Fi' to rescue them.

"These are the pick of the crop," continued Harry, his eyes swiftly leaving Ruth's. "They had the best scores in the interviews, and in the psychometric tests. Which our esteemed HR specialist…?"

It was Harry's turn to look thoughtful.

"Debra Langham."

Ruth had been waiting for him to struggle. It was obvious from her tone that the name had been sat patiently on the tip of her tongue for quite some time. That in itself wasn't particularly significant – moments of the sort had begun occurring when she was still on probation. No one currently sat at the table could remember a time before Harry and Ruth's effortless pre-empting of one another's thoughts.

"…Will be on hand with us, tomorrow, to explain more clearly."

"She can start with the word 'psychometric'."

Zaf's cheeky interjection raised a smile from Ruth, and it was with a subtly curter tone that Harry continued talking once more.

"She'll be here in the morning."

"At nine a.m., actually."

Their habit of speaking almost as a unit was getting out of hand, Harry mused. Unfortunately however, he didn't seem to be able to summon up any sort of disapproval concerning the matter. He couldn't even manage mild annoyance.

He rather liked it.

"Which will give you plenty of time to sift through the dross to choose which are the most stellar candidates to join our illustrious brotherhood."

Part of him wondered if he had used the term specifically to annoy her.

"Mmm…" Ruth's distaste was immediately apparent.

"What?" His voice was sharp. There was no wondering this time – he knew full well that he was drawing her into an argument for his own enjoyment.

"No – I was just thinking, erm, 'clique' or-or 'circle' might be more…" She drew a shuddering breath. "…inclusive."

She knew she didn't stand a chance even as she spoke. The others exchanged amused looks – they knew it too.

"Don't you think?" Her question was a last ditch effort to dig herself back out – more than a little resigned.

"No. I like 'brotherhood'." Christ, he was going to have work hard to stop his grin from widening.

Raised eyebrows and a swift nod were her only attempts to save face.

"Anyone else have a problem with my way of expressing myself today?"

He wouldn't have added that last bit if he hadn't known that she wasn't really too worried. Ruth embarrassed herself – it was simply what she did. In fact, it was one of the things that made her quite so wonderful.

He looked about him for a reply.

The team had barely finished nodding when Malcolm came in. It's amazing how one news report can flip the atmosphere in a room on its head.

* * *

"If you feel like you want to talk to someone…"

It took him a moment to realise what she had just said. Lost in his own thoughts, he had heard her words, but not registered them. He had presumed she would be recommending some sort of counseling; he hadn't reckoned on her offering up her own shoulder for crying on.

He looked up sharply.

"I don't have any plans later. If…you know."

It was unexpected, to say the least. He had only refrained from telling her to bugger off and leave him alone in the first place, because she was…well…_her_. Even then, he had expected empty sentiments of the sort so often rattled out on such occasions. The only real comfort he had sought was that which came merely from her presence.

But here she was, open and sincere, offering herself up to be his for an evening. It was tempting, but he knew that she only meant to listen and console him, and he didn't want that. He wouldn't be able to open up, and it would be awkward, and she would be hurt.

"Thank you, Ruth, but I've got to return a few calls. Nothing like a sudden death to bring old friends out of the woodwork."

It was a dismissal, but she didn't crumple; her face did not fall. It was one of the things that he loved about her – she was sensitive, and sweet, but not needy or naïve. She would give him time and space, and he knew, though he would never take her up on it, that that offer of friendship and comfort would be waiting for him as long as he needed it.

* * *

Ruth was so tired that wrestling her front door open nearly floored her. Once she was through and it was closed again, she leant her back against the stained glass, tipping her neck exhaustedly, and waiting for the feeling to return to her fingertips.

She could have stayed like that all night if the phone hadn't started ringing.

Groaning aloud, she shuffled through the house, heading in the direction of the incessant noise.

"Hello?" she said wearily, her voice escaping in a rushing sigh.

"_Is that Ruth?" _

She didn't recognize the voice.

"Who is this?"

"_I work behind the bar at The Cricketers. Your…er…Mr. Pearce? He's here, and he's a bit worse for wear."_

"In what way?" she asked sharply.

"_Well…drunk, frankly."_

"And why are you calling me?" Damn. That had come out wrong. She continued hurriedly. "I-I-I mean, you've done the right thing. I was just wondering how you knew to call me. And my number, and my name, and…all that."

"_Well, I suggested that someone should probably pick him up. I was worried about him getting home okay. I can be quite persuasive, and he seems pretty compliant, so he shoved his phone at me and said 'Ruth's speed dial one'. He's in the toilets now."_

Ruth raised her hand to her face, and sighed in disbelief.

"Keep a close eye on him. I'll be there as soon as I can."

* * *

She spotted him as soon as she entered the pub. He was sat at the bar, still nursing his long-empty glass. His shoulders were slumped, and there was an uncharacteristic clumsiness about him, even sat down.

He looked up at her as she approached, stopping a few feet short of him.

"Bloody fool," she said unsympathetically, surveying his bleary eyes and rumpled clothing.

Harry didn't say anything, but had the grace to look more than a little abashed in the face of her scrutiny.

"Where's your security officer?" asked Ruth.

"I gave him the slip." His voice was slurred.

Ruth shook her head in disbelief. "Of all the idiotic things to do. Thank God I'm not some disillusioned ex-spook looking for revenge, hey?"

Once more, Harry refrained from replying.

"Can you walk on your own?" she continued bitingly. "Or will I have to drag you out of here?"

Harry ran a hand over his face, and pushed his glass away.

"I think…I can walk," he replied finally.

Ruth nodded. "Give me your phone, and follow me."

Harry looked up in surprise as they exited the pub.

"You didn't drive?"

Ruth followed his, somewhat wobbly, sightline, and saw that he was staring at the taxi in surprise.

"No," she murmured distractedly, turning her attention back to the task of wrestling her gloves off so that she could use his mobile. "I decided that, if you were so drunk you couldn't walk, it would be best to have a nice strong cab driver around to help me."

"I'm not going to be manhandled by some taxi driver," growled Harry, but Ruth wasn't listening.

"Hello, James?" She had evidently managed to get in touch with his security officer. "Yes, yes, I know. He's with me…How is he?" She regarded Harry critically. "Drunk. But standing…No, there's no need to pick him up. I've got a cab…I'll take him back to mine…No, James; it's fine. Go home and get some much-deserved rest…Me? Oh, I don't need sleep. You know that...Yes, goodbye."

She shoved his phone back at him inelegantly. "Put this back in your pocket. _Safely_ – we'll have lots of fun trying to find it if you drop it somewhere."

"You don't have to talk to me as though I'm an idiot," mumbled Harry.

"Oh, because right now you're behaving like such a…!" She broke off, sighing. "Get in the car, Harry."

Harry waited until her back was turned before he followed. He had been a little creative with the truth when assessing his own mobility. He could walk, just about, but not without considerable difficulty. His knees seemed unwilling to do as he asked, his head was now spinning at a rate he supposed was probably dangerous, and the biting coldness of the night air was playing havoc with his coordination.

Still, he managed to stumble into the taxi without falling over. Thank God.

The journey back to Ruth's was horribly awkward, and she found herself annoyed about the fact. It should be awkward because it was the middle of the night, and they were both going back to her home. Not because Harry was struggling to keep upright in his seat. She knew that he was upset about Clive, but she couldn't stop the disappointment she felt about him choosing to drown his sorrows in the pub, rather than taking her up on her offer to talk. She had always hoped that he thought more of her than that.

She used Harry's wallet to pay the driver. She didn't think that he would mind.

She couldn't help but notice that he seemed to be experiencing some difficulty exiting taxi; taking three attempts to do so. It was with little surprise that she watched him sink into her as the car pulled away.

"Brilliant," she sighed, tucking her arms firmly under his armpits as his knees rolled about like ball bearings.

Harry seemed to have decided that his best bet this evening was to avoid challenging her, and so settled for the only thing his body could really manage at that moment – a pitiful groan.

Ruth rolled her eyes, and blew away a lock of hair that had fallen from the grip of her ponytail.

"Harry," she grunted, doing her best to heave him up a little, "You weigh…a tonne…You're going to…have to…give me…a little…help!"

Harry nodded, trying to ignore the smell of her perfume, and the soft skin of her neck, which he had inadvertently exposed from the confines of her scarf. It was against this skin that his face had come to rest.

Taking a deep breath, he locked his knees, and allowed her to swing one of his arms around her neck, and one of her arms around his waist.

"Okay," she panted, gripping his wrist tightly in her gloved hand, "We need to get to the front door."

Harry nodded again, murmuring something that sounded distinctly like, "Sorry about this," before concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

Together, they managed to travel the few paces from the pavement to her front door. It was here, that things got far more complicated.

Ruth was trying to strike the perfect balance between supporting her ominously swaying boss, and extracting her key from her handbag, when Harry's foot found a patch of the frost that was already forming, and he slipped sharply forwards. His attempts to steady himself failed miserably, and his shoulder impacted heavily with Ruth's head, slamming it into the hard wooden frame of the front door.

"Oh, shit! Ruth, I'm so sorry, are you alright?"

Ruth shrugged him off, so that she could straighten herself up. Her hand flew to her forehead, instinctively rubbing hard at the bump she knew would form there.

Harry held his breath, mortified. He knew that Ruth was angry at him already, and he suspected that smashing her head into her own front door would probably be the final straw.

To his astonishment, Ruth turned to look at him, laughing softly.

"_Oh_, that hurt," she sighed, half weeping, half giggling.

Harry's eyes widened. "Are you okay? Have I hurt you?" He shook his head sharply at his own stupidity. "I mean obviously I've hurt you, but –"

Ruth cut him off by placing her hand softly on his arm. "Harry, I'm okay. And anyway, you probably did me a favour – the shock seems to have cured you of any difficulty standing."

He looked down to see that it was true. In fact, now that he thought about it, despite the fact that his skull was still seemingly stuffed with cotton wool, his knees felt altogether more compliant to his wishes.

"Nothing like causing bodily harm to his best analyst to sober a man up," he said with a dark smile.

"Quite."

Ruth turned her attention back to the door.

"Look, Ruth," said Harry, "I really am sorry about this. I know it's not on, putting you in this position. I mean, I'm supposed to be your boss."

She didn't turn around as she replied. "It's fine, Harry. You've had some horrible news today."

"But you seemed so angry when you came to fetch me."

"Let's just say…" Ruth sighed heavily, and leant her head against the door, "…I've had too much experience collecting drunken men from bars. And I suppose I let it cloud my judgment a bit."

Harry rested his hands comfortingly on her shoulders. She shuddered slightly at the sensation of his breath crystallizing on the back of her neck.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Doesn't matter," she sighed, finally slipping the key into the lock and swinging the door open. "Shall we?" she asked.

*

The harsh, white brightness of the kitchen lights assaulted Harry's senses mercilessly, and Ruth couldn't help but smile in amusement to herself as she watched him wince.

"Sit," she commanded in a soft voice, disentangling herself from her scarf, and shrugging off her coat.

Harry did as he was instructed, and took a seat at the kitchen table.

"You're going to eat," she continued, pulling a bag of pasta from her cupboard.

"I'll be sick," moaned Harry.

"No you won't," said Ruth. "You'll feel better."

"Ruth, I don't mean to insult your culinary skills, but I really will –"

"You won't be sick," interrupted Ruth in a calm voice. "Anyway," she couldn't help but add, with a shy grin, "If you are, I'll hold your hair back."

Harry rolled his eyes, but he smiled back at her.

Ruth pushed a large glass of water at him, and busied herself boiling the pasta, and preparing a garlicky tomato sauce to accompany it. Harry watched her work with affectionate bemusement, every so often sipping at the icy drink before him. It made him smile, the way that her face held a look of such complete concentration as she chopped the tomatoes, and there was something inexplicably beautiful about the way that she puckered her lips into a plump rosebud to blow on the pasta before trying it.

"Put your tongue back in your mouth, Harry, and have some more of that water," said Ruth, sounding amused.

"What do you mean?" asked Harry, amused.

"You've been staring at me for ages. Apparently observing whilst remaining unobserved is not one of your strong points after a few drinks."

Harry smiled resignedly, and gulped down the remaining water left in the glass. As soon as he was done, Ruth took it from him, and promptly refilled it.

"You're merciless, aren't you?" asked Harry.

"I just always know best," murmured Ruth cheekily in reply.

She turned from him to begin dishing up his late-night snack.

"You're different when I'm drunk," noted Harry. He didn't seem to be able to keep any of his observations in his head.

"What, both of me, you mean?"

Harry laughed. "No. No, I mean, you're…more confident. Cheeky. What were you talking about earlier? When you said about being used to picking up drunken men."

Ruth's attention was still focused pointedly at the pasta, which she was currently grating a generous heap of cheese onto.

"Have you read my file, Harry?"

Harry wished that he could see her face.

"Bits of it," he replied eventually.

"I'm talking about my psychological profile."

"Oh. No – I don't tend to read them, apart from the basic summaries, of course – I prefer to work a person out for myself."

"What have you worked out about me?" The question was out before she could stop it. She really should turn to face him – it was too easy to let her mouth run away with her when she wasn't caught in the inhibiting glare of his beautiful eyes. "No, don't answer that. Anyway, long story short, my step-brother was an alcoholic. My mother and his father argued a lot, so most of the time, it was left to me to…take care of him."

For the second time that day, her distaste was very apparent.

Harry slammed the heel of his hand into his forehead. "Oh, Ruth, I'm so sorry. I feel like a complete idiot." He hit himself again. "Really – I've behaved appallingly."

Here, Ruth did turn to face him. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest. "No you haven't, Harry. Your friend died, so you went out and had too much to drink. You've behaved completely understandably."

"I shouldn't have called you." He would not be consoled.

Ruth took a seat opposite him, placing the bowl on the table, and smiling at his embarrassment. He really did not think about himself enough.

"Look, Harry, there really is no way you could have known."

"I could have read your bloody file," groaned Harry.

She laughed as she pushed the pasta a little closer to him. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm glad that you didn't."

Harry looked up.

"Well, I can't read yours," she pointed out. "Er, actually, that's a lie – I probably could. Actually, I can…definitely. But I never would. I mean, it would be dishonest, and I –"

"I must be sobering up," quipped Harry weakly. "You're rambling again."

Ruth's eyes dipped shyly. "Anyway, you not reading my file puts us on equal footing," she summarized. "Now, eat."

Harry didn't think that he was done apologizing yet, but something in Ruth's tone told him that the discussion was over, so he picked up his fork unenthusiastically, instead.

"Look, Ruth, I really don't think that this is a good –"

"Eat!"

Defeat written in his eyes, he placed a small forkful of the pasta into his mouth. As he had expected, his stomach turned immediately. What he had not been expecting, however, was for it to keep right on turning – until it had gone full-circle – and settle back down quite happily. Apparently the pasta was not going to make him throw up.

Ruth watched in approval as he ate greedily.

"Good?" she asked, her own eyes full of amusement.

"Exquisite , I would have said," replied Harry.

"Oh, well – if it's that good…"

Ruth produced a second fork, and they ate in contented silence, from the same bowl, for a few moments.

Eventually, Ruth decided to ask a question which had been bothering her for a while.

"Why did you?"

Harry's eyes reluctantly left his food to look at her quizzically. "What?"

"Why did you? Call me? Wouldn't Adam have made more sense?"

Harry regarded her in disbelief. "Ruth, it's been, well, _quite _a while since I pointed out that it wasn't exactly my cleverest idea. Your mind is something else, you know that?"

Ruth grinned. "Sorry."

They went back to their food.

"So? Why did you call me?"

Harry shook his head distractedly. "Sorry, I completely forgot that you'd asked. Well…" He realised that she had posed quite a question. He decided to be honest. "…You were just the first person that I thought of." He finished with a small shrug.

Ruth tried to refrain from glowing with pleasure at his words. They did give her the courage to ask him another question, though.

"And, what is it that you've worked out about me?" she asked. "From _not _reading my file."

She held her breath as Harry considered the question. Half of her hoped that he would comment on her professional capabilities, but the other half was wishing that he would fling the pasta aside, tell her that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, and pin her to the table.

Oblivious to what was running through his prized analysts mind, Harry wondered how on Earth he could answer without dropping himself in it. The truth?

_Well, Ruth, when we first met, I dismissed you as someone I understood. It took me an age to realise that I didn't understand you at all. _

_And now?_

_Now, you affect me like no person I have met in my life ever has. You amuse me, bemuse me, enchant me, delight me, astound me, and make my heart race. You are beautiful, bizarre, and completely you. You might have the sharpest mind I have every encountered, and what is even more endearing is that you don't even realise how brilliant you are. I spend my evenings trying to pluck up the courage to call you, wondering what you are doing, reliving my conversations with you, imagining what it would be like to call you mine._

_Christ, I think I love you…_

"You're…unique," he answered eventually.

Ruth raised her eyebrows. "Is that it?" she asked in disappointment.

"I don't mean that as a throwaway comment, Ruth. You really are completely one of a kind; completely…you."

"And that's a compliment?"

"That," Harry replied seriously, "Is the most sincere, caring compliment that I could give anyone – to call them you."

He knew immediately that he had gone too far; that any hopes he had previously nurtured of keeping his feelings hidden had just been smashed to smithereens. He wondered if she would run, but she surprised him.

"Harry, do you ever feel alone?" Her voice was quite calm.

He considered his reply. "There's alone, and then there's lonely. I am – for the most part – alone, but I rarely feel lonely."

"Even though you never…you never really open up?"

"Well, _you're _not much of a sharer, Ruth. Do you ever feel lonely?"

She popped another pasta shell into her mouth as she answered. "All the time."

And all at once, it made sense to him. For, if he was drunk, she was surely drunk by association, and they had fallen into that intoxicating honesty that come with alcohol consumed in the middle of the night – that time when things are both hilarious and tragic in equal measure.

He decided that it was his turn to redirect the questioning.

"Even though what happened with your stepbrother was horrible, would you agree that it was fair to say that you are more comfortable with drunks than with sober people?"

Ruth frowned; not at him, but, more accurately, at the table-top. "I suppose I would agree with that, yes. When people have been drinking, they're so…honest, in a tragically twisted way. Even if what they say – or _do _– is unpleasant, at least you don't have to worry about analysing it."

"You think I'm actually a clumsy oaf then?"

"No, I…"

He cut her off with a surprisingly light touch of his hand on hers. "Ruth, you can't let your step-brother influence the way that you –"

This time, she was the one doing the interrupting. "If I agree what I know you're about to say, then can we change to subject to something I'm more comfortable with?"

He clapped his hands together briskly, his heart momentarily rejoicing at the flash of disappointment in her eyes; a result of the removal of his fingers from hers.

"How about we call me a cab, and I go home and collapse on my sofa?" he quipped at his own expense.

Ruth shook her head adamantly. "Oh, no, Pearce – you're staying in my spare room so that I can keep an eye on you."

He considered arguing, but apparently saw the futility in such an action, and decided against it.

*

"I feel like a child; you tucking me in like this."

Ruth continued to smooth the cool fabric of the pillows, letting her thumb every so often brush against his hair as she did so.

"Well, that's apt – you've behaved in a very immature manner." It was a rebuke, but her tone was mild, caring.

He gripped her wrist, stilling her hand on its journey across the cotton under his head. Even in the gloom of the small box room, he could see the excitement and fear that battled for dominance of expression.

"What's wrong, Harry?"

He chose to be honest. "My friend died, and I…wish he hadn't. Stay with me…?"

She didn't even hesitate – she had been telling the truth about wanting to be there for him. Slipping her jumper off, she slid in between the covers.

His arms were reluctant as they reached out for her, so she patiently took his hands in hers, wrapping his arms tightly around her stomach. He wasn't sure why he should be surprised at the softness of her flesh, but he was. It was torturous.

She delicately wriggled backwards so that they were pressed tightly together, and as soon as her soft hair brushed against his face, he felt the tears he had fought so adamantly all day well up in his eyes.

"It's not so much the loss," he gasped.

She nodded and waited for him to continue.

"It's knowing that he _did _end up alone and lonely, and I could so easily go the same way."

A second nod, and a silent granting of permission – _say it all, Harry._

"Ruth, I know that I've messed things up badly this evening, but do you think we…?"

Her only reply was to pull his arms tighter around her. He got the message, and his words gave way to kisses, light and hot on the back of her neck.

"Thank you," he breathed into her hair.

That was how they fell asleep.

*

He awoke with the dawn chorus. By rights, his head should be splitting, and his joints should be aching, but he felt remarkably healthy. He supposed he had Ruth's magical pasta to thank for that.

Ruth, who was still enveloped tightly in his arms, her face slightly slack as her body reveled in the rest it so desperately needed. It was not the ideal way to wake up in her bed, but he had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, he fully intended to make things up to her.

"Ruth?"

She was evidently a light sleeper; waking immediately at his soft whisper.

"Mmm? Is anything wrong? Do you need something?"

He shook his head. "No. Just wanted to tell you that I promise, I'll never put you in that position again."

She was screwing her face up with the effort of staying awake, but she managed to smile nonetheless.

"Don't worry – you were actually rather endearing."

She reached up to kiss him, softly, achingly, on the lips, before murmuring. "I'm going back to sleep now, but when I wake up…"

She trailed off, nestling her head into his chest, but he knew what she meant.

…_I'm yours._


End file.
